ORIGINAL Curse of the Mask II
by p0ke37
Summary: This story began before Fable II came out, and ended when it did. Look for the revised Curse of the Mask II, coming soon!
1. Part One

The fisherman pulled in the line on his rod, knowing that it was the end of the day, and that he must head home to his wife an

The fisherman pulled in the line on his rod, knowing that it was the end of the day, and that he must head home to his wife and children. To his _ungrateful_ wife and children. They never smiled or laughed, couldn't enjoy a nice meal when they had one. When the fisherman went out of his way to buy them something nice, they turned up their noses as if they were better than the hand that feeds them.

Bob the fisherman sighed again, and he decided to throw his line out one more time, to see just what luck would bring him. The shores of Hook Coast were sometimes known to give lucky catches at the most random of times. Bob pulled on his line gently, and there was an almost insignificant tug, so Bob disregarded it as a bit of seaweed or mud. As he pulled in his line, though, there was a great amount of resistance and Bob pulled as hard as he could. The line quivered, and threatened to snap, but with a great tug on the line, the line flew out of the water and behind Bob's head.

Bob turned to see what had caused him to struggle so hard. He had anticipated a 25 pounder, maybe more, but what he saw was a porcelain mask, with the colors of blood red and dark purple staining it.

...

Later that night, Bob pulled in his days meager catch as he braced himself for the absence of devotion and love he was about to face. He walked in the door, with barely enough food to feed the family, and his wife, Clarissa, snarled at him and asked, "Why didn't you catch more?" Bob shrugged off the question, and hoped his three boys would at least hug him. Bu they were not in sight, so Bob forgot about it.

Bob sat down in the family's chair, and looked at the portrait on the wall. The portrait was of a great hero, wearing golden plate mail and seeming to have the slightest trace of a Halo over his head, as if he were an angel. Nobody remembers exactly what the hero did, and why he was so great, but Bob's father, his father, and his father, and so on, they all claimed one thing. They all claimed to be related to the great hero in that painting and that painting was passed down through every generation. Suddenly Bob remembered about the mask he had found while fishing, and decided to take it out.

He stared into the empty eye sockets of the mask. A trace of power was revealed just by touching the mask. It was surely old; there was the faint hint of age on it. Yet, there were no scratches, or dents. Almost on a subconscious level, Bob felt the urge to try on the mask, but he felt like it would be better suited hanging in his room, on the wall. After Bob ate dinner alone, he went to bed on the couch. Clarissa kept the bed to herself.

…

That night, Bob dreamed. The mask seemed to be talking to him, in a sweet yet sinister voice.

"_Bob the fisherman,"_ it hissed. _"I want you to wear me… together we will be all powerful. Together… with that family bloodline of yours…"_

Bob snored. He woke up the next morning, took a jog, and tried on the mask in an alley.

_Authors note: Sorry for not writing in a while... I have been very busy with my friends, girlfriend, family, and other stuff! Please excuse my absense for a while. If you liked the first chapter, please review! I usually do two or three chapters a day when I'm in the mood to knock it out._


	2. Part Two

In an instant, Bob's world became one of darkness and flames. Visions of women and children screaming, men being massacred, and hundreds of innocents burned in a small church flooded his mind. He grabbed the back of his newfound mask, and pulled as hard as he could to try to rip it off of his face. He grunted and fell to the ground, but yet the mask would not come with his physical strength. Bob reached into his mind, and made his sole purpose to expel this mask. With great determination, the mask came off inch by inch, and it fell to the ground. Bob got back on his feet, and watched as the world receded to normality.

The fisherman noticed a few things, in a sudden rush of incredulity. First, the mask had emitted an evil glow a few seconds before trying it on... somehow Bob had tried it on anyway. But he didn't realize that whern the mask came off, there was no longer an evil glow.

The second realization was more subtle. Bob found an inner strength that he had never experienced before, something that was powerful, ancient, and yet a warm force.

The final realization was something he only noticed on a subconscious level of his brain. His mind had a faint memory of a story of a hero, an evil mask, an indestructable demon... but as it wasn't a priority on his mind, it was instantly discarded. And so Bob the Fisherman cast the evil mask into the garbage heaps, and forgot about it over the next few days. But he didn't know that he had become involved in the greatest battle of good versus evil ever.

... In the Village of Oakvale, several weeks later ...

The stink of rotting garbage was a familiar smell in the slums of the vast city of Oakvale. A teenage boy, by the name of Damascus, was hauling some of this decaying filth in a rubber bag. He had been working as a garbage personel for the city of Oakvale since he was fourteen, which was three year ago. The young man of seventeen was a hard worker, and got the job done right, the first time. He had no family, no friends, no education... but for the purposes of this story; he is not a nobody. Damascus became a hero.

Damascus grunted as he lifted the bag up above a chute, where the garbage would be burned when it reached the bottom. He struggled, but managed to fit the overstuffed bag into the chute. Damascus went back to his work site to retrieve the last bag to end his day and get his pay. Along the way, he stepped in a pile of dog crap, but hardly noticed. In his life, the rich had always let their dogs run wild in the slums, just to anger the misfortunate. Damascus lifted the final bag onto his shoulder, and he grunted and heaved as he carried it to the chute. Within a few minutes, he was at the chute, and he lifted up and into the hole. The bag didn't go down, and he jumped on it, and tried to get it unstuck, but it didn't work.

Damascus pulled out his knife, which he always kept razor sharp, and cut the bag open. The rubber cut, and rancid toxinous smells invaded his nostrils. He fell off the chute, and the garbage of the bag fell onto him. His eyes watered, and he couldn't breathe. He pushed the garbage off of him, and began to pick up the remains on the ground. Rotten food, broken wands that splintered his hands, old razors that still cut... these things all were nuisances he dealt with. And as he picked up a particularly brown sock, a mask of exotic making caught his eye.

He picked up the mask, and examined it closely. It was certainly of no value, but it had a somewhat sinister look to it. It seemed to be ordering him to try it on, to obey it's will. And so, Damascus, poor garbage boy for Oakvale, tried on the mask.

Instantly, his heart began to beat rapidly, his sense were ten times as keen, and he seemed to feel as if his muscles were enlarging. This sudden change pleased him, but yet he felt as if something was wrong. At once, he tried to pull off the mask, but he was thrown up into the air, and landed into the chute. The heat of the chute told him of the danger, yet he suffered no injury. He fell into the flames of the furnace, yet was still alive. In an instant, he was back next to the chute, and he pulled off the mask with much effort. Then he threw the mask into the chutes, to be burned to nothingness.

Damascus didn't know of the great struggle of good versus evil that he had just been brought into. But he would know soon enough.

... Five miles underneath Oakvale ...

Gzabora the Hobbe saw an object fall down a few feet ahead of her. She walked towards it, and picked it up.

_Authors note: A lot of people have expressed their concern on the outcome of the story! I am pleased to announce that I now have a good idea of the storyline/plot, and I will have the next chapter done soon! Stay tuned!_


	3. Part Three

Three months after the previous chapter…

Three months after the previous chapter…

Bob the fisherman hated his life even more as each day passed. He loathed his wife, who did nothing but bitch and complain all day, and lately he had begun to think that his "lovely" wife was cheating on him with some other man, because all she ever seemed to grow happy about was talking about 'frolicking in the meadows' and 'enjoying nature'. It didn't take a wise mage to figure it out, and Bob figured that sooner or later she would serve as fine fish bait. As for his children… they seemed to want more from him, when he gave his all in fishing and sitting on his arse all day to provide for his family. Jeez, they seemed to even believe that fish prefer warm water, instead of the cold Hook Coast bay. _If I were a fish_, thought Bob, _I would LOVE to take a dip in the icy refreshing water_.

And that was when Bob, sitting in a homemade wooden lawn chair (that was given as a gift to him by his aunt), began to realize that this life was not much a life at all. When he was younger, he dreamt of traveling the land, meeting beautiful damsels and maidens, and lending a helping hand to society by becoming a hero through hard work, generosity, and bravery. Now, all of that 'hard work' was spent sitting in a lawn chair, wondering where all the fish are, the 'generosity' was sucked out of him by his snot-nosed children and wife, and the 'bravery' he dreamt of using was nowhere to be found, having barely enough courage to go home at night.

Through this realization, Bob came to one conclusion: he was still young enough to complete his dreams, and he would complete them and leave his family behind. The more he thought about it, the more he fell in love with the idea. And so Bob the fisherman took his knife, a fishing pole, and left the lawn chair where it was, as he set out to explore Albion on foot and settle the score with his dreams.

…

Damascus ran. The city guards were chasing him, and he was dodging their fire-lit arrows and running as fast as his legs could carry him. This all happened because some rich bureaucrat let his dog shit on Damascus's foot, and the bureaucrat simply laughed and praised his dog for 'not going on something important'. Damascus lit up, and slugged him one. When the man reached for the sword at his side, Damascus reacted instinctively, and with a flick of the knife he had cut his throat. Several passing citizens gasped, and eventually everyone was screaming for the guards as the rich man bled to death. Damascus had no choice but to run, and now here he was: running through dark woods in the middle of the night, with only the light of a few torches to guide him. If he got out of this alive… well what did it matter, anyway? He was nobody, no family, no friends, and zero chance of ever becoming someone. Life sucked, but that's the way it works: it sucks for a lot of people, so that the few lucky ones get to enjoy it to the fullest.

The blazing arrows were getting closer and closer to Damascus, and his body began to tire. Adrenaline only worked for so long, and then you had to accept the fact that a bunch of overweight underpaid cops were going to catch up to a healthy seventeen year old man. Indeed, life sucks. Soon the light of the guards' torches illuminated the path behind him and out of sheer desperation, Damascus took a risky move: he climbed up a tree. Damascus shinnied his way to the top, and the guards began to chuckle merrily. They all lit the arrows they carried, and loaded them into the crossbow chambers. The hiss of several arrows being fired occurred to Damascus early, and he jumped to the tree next to him and the last tree burst into flames. Damascus was saved by some new killer animal instinct, which he never knew he had until now. Well, all there was left to do was to keep dodging the guards' arrows and jump from tree to tree. And so Damascus jumped.

…

Gzabora the hobbe woke up under a tree in the pitch blackness of night. Gzabora remembered nothing, save for a few flashes of red light and… a weird porcelain mask. Slowly the memories came back to her. The mask was an evil thing… and the village elders tried to take the mask from her… and then Gzabora had murdered her entire village somehow.

Gzabora was a very confused hobbe, even as she was a very bright one. She decided to not let it worry her, and to find out where she was. She couldn't see anything, so she closed her eyes and focused on trying to hear anything useful. In a minute, the sounds of men jeering and cursing, and of arrows being let loose were in her mind. She worked her way to the source of the noise, opened her eyes, and noticed that about ten village guards were throwing their torches and arrows into a tree. The tree began to catch on fire… and then Gzabora realized that there was a young man in the tree! He coughed and sputtered, and then the man fell out of the tree, about twenty feet down, and landed on one of the guards with a sickening _crunch_. Gzabora decided to do something to save the boy, so she grabbed her club and swung rapidly at one of the guards that was about to stab the boy. The _thwack_ of the club on the guards' hand sent his sword flying in the air. The boy jumped up, grabbed the sword, and sliced the injured guards head off.

He brought his sword around in an arc upon one after another of the guards, and Gzabora clubbed the shins and knees of them until they buckled. They made a great team, and as the blood splashed from the death of one after another guards, time slowed down. Soon they were all dead, and both Gzabora and the boy were panting.

"Th-thanks…" panted the boy to Gzabora. "I would've been a goner save for you. What's your name, hobbe?" Gzabora replied her name, and the young man stated his as 'Damascus'. "Damascus and Gzabora make good team," grunted Gzabora, in the broken English her tribe used. "Yeah," he replied, and he held out his hand to the hobbe. She took it, and they both shook each others hands heartily, as newfound friends.

And so, Gzabora and Damascus, both having tried on the mask, talked until they both knew of the mask. With such a thing to never happen in coincidence, they both began on the journey to the one place that had answers to anything mystical or magical… the Heroes Guild.

And so, three people in the world of Albion were destined to meet.


	4. Part Four

Bob felt the arrow fly right past his head, only an inch or two off of hitting it's archer's intended target. Bob weaved in and out in a diagonal motion, doging the volley of arrows that were raining down upon him. Bob looked backward for a second, and in that second he tripped over a root and tumbled forward. He rolled forward in the darkness a few feet, and down the slope of the hill he was about to run down. Rolling all the way down the hill, the sounds of pistols being fired could be heard. When he stopped rolling and reached the bottom of the hill, he jumped into a bush, which coincidentally was full of thorns. Bob stifled a sceam of pain, and the shouts of angry villagers were heard. One tought-looking villager held his torch in the air, so that Bob could faintly make out his face. He had a huge scar running from his eye down his chin, down his neck, and continued past where his vest covered up the rest of the scar.

"That'll teach 'em to go lookin' for a Hero, eh?" yelled the villager I have just described, the one known as Mortimer. "Ya 'ere me ya whelp? Next time ou go lookin fer a 'ero, we'll cut your tongue out from yer mouth and send it to them as a quest card!"

Bob quivered in the bush, and he managed to get out of it without much further pain. Mortimer continued screaming with his followers, and after a while they left to go find a hero to punish.

You see, in the time of this stories writing, people hated Heroes. Why did they hate them? It all started a long time ago, nearly 1000 years ago, when the Jack-slayer had cast off the mask of the Jack of Blades, thus trapping Jack in the bottom of Hook Coast. The people of Albion remembered the Hero atatcking them, destroying their cities and burning the land. With most of the Heroes dead, the Jack-slayer left to have children, and was never seen again. The bad Heroes continued robbing the people of Albion,a nd with so few Heroes left, no one could stop them, but the people of Albion themselves. The citizens of Albion started a revolt which lasted many years, and eventually destroyed most of the Heroes and kept only those willing to live the remainder of their lives in the Guild. Those left in the Guild are growing old, but they still find a few new people to take on the title of Hero. Thus, the war against the men and women sworn to protect Albion continues.

Bob turned around, and a knife was put right under his chin, pointing up. And this is how Bob the fisherman, Damascus the garbage-boy, and Gzabora the hobbe met all at once. Damascus asked Bob who he was, and what his business was at the Heroes guild. Bob began to tell his story, about the mask, and as he finished, Damascus shook his head with an angry tear in his eye. "We come looking for the same thing, Bob. I am Damascus, and this is Gzabora. We all have had tragic encounters with the mask, ad yet somehow the mask connects us. I believe this is a moment in hsitory, and that together we must find out what this mask is. Let us climb over the wall of the Guild."

Bob nodded his head in agreement, and the three began scaling the wall of the Guild. With much effort, they managed to do this task. When they were at the bottom on the other side, they turned around and begn to examine what no non-hero had seen or nearly a millenium. The moonlight shone errily, and it gave sight to a beautiful tragedy. Trees were uprooted, rusted swords and axes lay on the ground, and blood stained patches of grass covered the mostly muddy landscape. The three trudged through the mud towards where the Guildmaster's quarters would be. They walked in, and climbed up the stairs, and as they did a skeleton of a figure sat in a reclining chair warming his hands towards the fireplace. The bony figure turned his head, and smiled with what energy was left in him. It was the Guildmaster, the same one who taught the Jack-slayer a thousand years ago.

"Come... sit in one of these." The Guildmaster waved hsi hand and three chairs poofed into existence. Bob, Gzabora and Damascus sat in each.

"I... am the Guildmaster... and I have expected you three," spoke the old Guildmaster. "In fact... it's been a thousand years, to the day if I might add. I have seen much in a thousand years, and a few times visitors came to see me. But this time, I know it is of the... the prophecy. Listen while I tell you of what I was told a millenia ago..."

_A thousand years ago, when the Jack-slayer had cast off the mask into Hook Coast, the land of Albion trembled with fear and joy at the same time. While many rejoiced the defeat of Jack, they feared the Hero who had served Jack would change his mind and once again terrorize them all. Instead, he accepted what was good in him and tried to heal Albion. After using up much of his Will to replenish the lands, much had been saved and yet there was so much left. After doing all he could do, the Jack-slayer cast himself off of Hook Coast in a boat, carrying a child which he would call his own. He left Albion never to be seen again, but his child came back one day, and had many children with many wives. The population of Heroes began to rise again. Of course, soon the villagers resented them and began to hunt the Heroes as if a game._

_During all of this, the Guildmaster weptfor what had become the accepted fate of a hero. Until one day, when a hooded figure came to the Guildmaster and placed a curse on him. "Doomed ye will be, until ye find the three. Untouched by death till ye very last breath." The hooded man made his stay in the guild, forever decaying and unable to die, until the three touched by Jack were found._

"Wow, it sounds like us, doesn't it?" said Damascus. "I mean, I think we all know that that thing Jack -- whatever it is -- has touched us in one way or another. I can feel it... something is different inside me than before."

"Same here," agreed Bob.

"Gzabora three!" grunted the hobbe.

The Guildmaster spoke gravely, "I see. Then you all must do what you have been meant to do. You must find that mask, wherever it may be, and you must destroy it. The Mask will try to taunt you, you must not put it on again, or Jack will find a way of reaching into all three of you, and he will tear Albion apart, as he has not done for a thousand years. The only way to destroy it is... well, take it to Archon's gate, and you will see. I'm afraid all of you will pay a price for it, but you must. If you fail... the land of Albion is lost forever. Lastly, I offer you my Will powers. Even divided by three, it is great, and I have had an eternity to master it. You must all find a way of finding the mask... leave the Guild, and let me rest... in... peace."

With those last words the Guildmasters eye's shut slowly and his torture in living was over. And suddenly, boots could be heard stomping and the cries of angry men were heard. Torches cast their light up from the bottom of the stairwell. The Villagers had broken into the Guild.

By magic, a sword appeared in Damascus's hand, a bone-crushing mace in Gzabora's, and a double sided spear in Bob's. It seemed the Guildmasters Will was atching over them.

And so, the three unlikely Heroes of Albion got ready for there first battle againt the very people they are trying to save.

**A/N: I will not be continuing this story in the future. At the time of writing this, Fable II had not come out and this was all speculation. My writing has changed since this piece of work, but I leave it as a landmark of my writing._ Thank you for reading!_**


End file.
